


Flu Humbug

by HastaLux



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux
Summary: Mycroft is sick with the flu and being overly dramatic about it. Greg comes up with a creative way to make him feel better.





	Flu Humbug

He’s taken to calling it the Christmas Killer. Quick, vicious, and unrelenting, the killer had descended on London without warning, ruining the holidays for hundreds of families.

Not even the secure fortress of Mycroft Holmes’s London home could stop it. Despite all his protections, despite all his care, he’d let it right in without a second thought.

“Gregory….” he moans from his prone position on the couch. “Help….”

His lover, hale and hearty and barely sporting a sniffle, peers round the corner from the kitchen. “Are you out of tea again?”

Mycroft sniffs, peering out from the mound of blankets and tissues he has ensconced himself in. “The series finished.”

“Love, I know you’re ill, but you _can_ reach the remote, I promise you. You _will_ have to stick a hand out though.”

It’s one of the worst flu seasons the UK had seen in decades, and terribly communicative. And Gregory, the bastard, had it first, for scarcely a week and hardly sporting a fever.

Mycroft’s immune system is not fairing as well. “You did this,” he moans dramatically, tilting over on the couch in his cocoon of warmth and comfort. (Although he would not himself acknowledge the dramatics of such a thing. Holmeses are, as a rule, above such things. According to themselves.) “I’m rescinding your presents, you plague-bearer.”

“Every complaint is a sign of a strengthening immune system, love. Besides, I know where you hide the gifts.” Greg smiles indulgently and Mycroft glares at him. “Now, do you want another toddy?”

“No, I want to fire the NHS.”

“Sweetheart, you know they can’t always pick right which strain to make the jab with.” Mycroft huffs and drags a blanket over his face. “Right, one toddy coming up.”

“I’m firing you. For contaminating me.”

“I don’t work for you, darlin’, and I do not recall you protesting the contamination in question at the time.”

One eye peeks out of the blanket fortress and spies Greg’s smirk before he wanders back toward the kitchen. “Cheek. You musn’t be scandalous with me when I’m ill, it’s not fair.”

“Then you’ll have to focus on getting better, won’t you?”

Mycroft mutters to himself, snuggling down into the couch and his pile of fluffy accoutrements. Gregory had been remarkably accommodating about Mycroft’s inability to go out, especially since he knows how much Greg enjoys the winter season- he’d been wanting to do something with an actual sleigh ride involved, before they were both struck ill.

“M’sorry I cannot go out with you, Gregory,” he murmurs from the couch as Gregory wanders back with a nice steaming cup and a smile.

“S’alright, love. Drink that, now, will you? Maybe take a nap instead of starting up another show.” He smiles mischievously. “Since you can’t reach the remote n’all.”

“Cheek,” Mycroft mutters back, settling in with the cup gently billowing steam at him from the coffee table. Perhaps a nap would be in order….

When he wakes, the television is off and Gregory is nowhere to be seen. “Greg’ry?” he murmurs blearily, extricating himself from blankets that are now far too warm.

There is no response- at least not an audible one. For on the coffee table there is a freshly hot cup of tea and a note.

_Drink, then solve the puzzle._

Mycroft lifts a brow. A puzzle? Gregory is getting creative. But he doesn’t see a puzzle. _Alright… drink first, then._ He hasn’t had much food- his stomach always has trouble settling when he’s ill- but the tea should be fine. It goes down smoothly, full of lemon and honey and all the soothing things Gregory has been urging him to have. It makes him feel fairly affectionate toward his conspicuously absent partner… especially after he looks in the bottom of the emptying teacup and spies black letters in Greg’s hand.

_A man of taste is allowed cake._

He smiles. Greg had said that, on one of their early dates when Mycroft had attempted to demur on ordering dessert.

 _Oh!_ This is his clue. _Well then._ He knows where cake would be kept, though he’s not sure his stomach can handle that yet. He pulls one of the blankets round him like a cape and shuffles toward the kitchen. Another note awaits him next to a still-steaming bowl of soup, and Mycroft looks around suspiciously. Either Gregory is far sneakier than he’s previously let on, or Mycroft’s ears are so stuffed up from his sinuses misbehaving that he can’t hear his lover’s quiet steps.

The note is straightforward enough. _Eat and be merry and bright._ He smiles because he can hear the simple command in Greg’s tone of voice.

One of their bar stools has been dragged over so Mycroft can eat at the counter, and he drapes his blanket cocoon around himself. The soup is one of Greg’s official-disease-killer recipes, a cauliflower, turmeric, and potato mix blended into a thick broth. Even Mycroft can’t resist it.

As he eats, he makes a point of dragging the soup away from the bottom of the bowl, but he doesn’t see any message there this time. _So,_ he contemplates as the soup warms him enough to shift his blanket wrap into more of a toga, _the clue is be merry and bright._

He thinks, his mind steady uncurling itself from the multiple days of mindless television he’s been watching. _Music, perhaps? Or something to do with snow…._ The song plays over in his mind. _“May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be white.”_

The first clue had been about one of their early dates. So….

Mycroft shuffles through the house, wrapping his blanket around himself, until he reaches the record player. The soundtrack for the _White Christmas_ film is set out next to the player, and Mycroft puts it on. Older holiday songs are the only ones he can really stand- all the new Christmas “pop” is nightmarish. He doesn’t even really like to go into shops if they’re playing it- then again he does not really enjoy going into shops normally.

This had been playing the first time Greg had come over- it had been the Christmas season then, too. Very snowy that year. It hadn’t taken much to convince Greg that it had gotten far too wild to go back out in, and he really had to stay the night.

He listens for a bit, grinning and watching the snow out the window. There’s no note for this one, at least not anywhere obvious. However- if he continues the theme of dates….

His eyes shift to the hall, and he walks that way, heading toward the projection room, his dark little enclave of classic films (he would never contaminate it by watching modern television there, though he has permitted Gregory to acquire some modern films in reel format). On the same evening, he had offered to keep Gregory company with a film while they “waited out the storm”. A bit of pretense, perhaps, but such things did work for a reason.

There are no clues in here, nothing stands out. Was there something about that evening he’s meant to remember? Or could it be any other number of countless evenings spent here that he should be recalling?

He sits on the couch to consider it, taking off the blanket. His fever feels like it’s breaking, or perhaps simply moving around the house has stimulated his systems enough to feel a bit refreshed. _Oh! Refreshed!_

“Ahah!”

He leaps off the couch and walks directly to the vase in the corner. He hadn’t caught immediately because his sense of smell is so weak with his nose stuffed, but the contents have been traded out for basil, rosemary, and sage, with lemon peel decoratively curling over the side.

This one he knows! This is the same scent combination he keeps in his master bath.

The feeling of getting the clue right away is still a bit thrilling. His mind feels less addled.

_I have a wise lover indeed._

And a caring one, for when he gets upstairs- with Gregory still well hidden, it seems- a bath has been run, complete with candles lit along the rim. Mycroft laughs. He hadn’t even heard the bath running.

“Gregory… you have outdone yourself.”

His lover appears as though the sound of his name has summoned him. “Enjoying it so far?”

“I am. Now where have you been hiding, you sneak?”

Greg smiles. “That would be telling. Now- may I help you into the bath, darlin’?”

It seems Gregory would like to do more than simply help him _into_ the bath, for as soon as he’s settled Greg is there with all his soaps and shampoo, ready to lather him up and handle all the cleaning. “You just relax, love. I’ve got you.”

The steam is amazing on Mycroft’s sinuses- he suddenly feels like he can actually _smell_ , for the first time in days. Good smells! And Gregory’s careful attentions with the lather are turning rather into a massage, and Mycroft sinks into those strong hands as they work into his shoulders.

“Comfy, love?”

“Nnnnnf.”

“I see. Here darlin’, let me help you up- that’s it- and once you’re all nice and dry we’ll get you in bed.”

“Bed isn’t is puzzle piece,” Mycroft murmurs sleepily, letting Greg guide him through the rituals of toweling off.

“Oh, it’s a very important puzzle piece. You only get to see it if you nap a bit more, yeah?” He can’t find the will to resist as Gregory gets him over to the bed and tucks him in, fluffing the pillows. “Just try to close your eyes for a bit.” Mycroft makes some noises of protest, but that’s the extent of his energy. Greg just snorts at him. “I know you didn’t sleep well. Just try. There you go. Sweet dreams, love.”

When he wakes again, it’s to the scents of a lovely breakfast drifting upstairs. Mycroft first sighs into the comfort of it, before his mind kicks on and he realizes he can _smell_ again! All the way from the kitchen, even! And furthermore, it seems to be part of Gregory’s puzzle, for there is a note on his bedside table that simply says _follow your nose_.

He’s up and into a dressing gown almost instantly, smiling as he runs through how he ended up in bed in the first place.

“Gregory….”

“Ah, there’s my sleepy love. How do you feel?”

“I think… much improved. How long did I sleep for?”

“Let’s not worry about exact numbers, darlin.”

“I’d be horrified, wouldn’t I.”

“Yes you would. Have a bacon rasher?”

Mycroft acquieses, for once, to Greg’s more indulgent tastes in breakfast fare, far more robust than his own usual selections of light fruit and a dash of yoghurt. His eyes search as he eats, looking for the next clue- Gregory has had much of an evening and the morning to prepare, after all, he could be very clever indeed.

_Unless…._

He looks down, considering his plate, stocked with hearty but healthy items, and the large glass of juice beside it. “Gregory.”

“Yes, love?”

“Did you… have you been tricking me into flu treatment? Is that what your puzzle is about?”

Gregory smiles. “Not entirely, but I figured, you know. Two birds one stone. ‘Sides, you could use a bit of feeding up.”

“Gregory, I do not-”

“Mycroft, there’s nothing wrong with having a shapely arse.” Greg waggles his brows and Mycroft rolls his eyes in response.

“One bit of bacon is not going to do a thing to my _arse_.”

Greg’s smile widens and Mycroft has the feeling he’s just walked into a trap. “Precisely.”

 _Bollocks._ “Gregory, I watch my figure for a reason-”

“I know, so do I.”

Another brow waggle earns yet another eye roll. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You like it. You’ve got an excess of corrige. Need to balance it out.”

Mycroft shakes his head, eating despite Greg’s overly pleased, smugly satisfied grin. Gregory is a good cook, after all. He musn’t waste it. “Is this the end of your game, then? A good meal?”

“Nah, there’s one more piece, but you’re going to have to work for it. Not like that,” he adds quickly, as Mycroft gives him a very appraising look. “You can keep your robe on.”

“Cheek.”

“You’re entertaining the idea, so I think you’re feeling a bit better.”

Mycroft harrumphs, but he can’t risk meeting Greg’s sly eye. He might giggle.

He gets through his entire breakfast before he asks again. “Where is my clue, Gregory?”

“Thought you liked solving things for yourself, love.”

 _Ah, so the clue is already here!_ And Mycroft had gone an entire meal without noticing. _Goodness._ It must be well hidden indeed- or quite subtle, like the exchange of plants in his cinema. _Hmmm._ He surveys the room. Again, nothing looks immediately out of place. _How did he phrase it? “You could use a bit of feeding up.” Something with food, perhaps?_ Hopefully not more to eat, as Mycroft has already indulged more than he otherwise might. There’s the breakfast spread, particularly ordinary. Something in the pantry, perhaps? No- the other clues had all been linked to past dates- dates in the winter….

He eyes the array of takeout menus pinned to the refrigerator by magnets. A date did not really narrow down the field- they’d eaten from all these places on one night or another, sometimes out, sometimes in. Where had they eaten in winters past? Somewhere for the Christmas season….

 _Oh! It’s not the menus themselves!_ Mycroft pulls one of the magnets off, looking at it closely. At first glance he’d taken it to be a snow globe, something brought in by Greg to increase the total amount of holiday cheer in the household. But it is actually a crystal ball! Very clever.

He considers the options, mindful of Gregory’s eyes following him. He must get this right!

_Winter… something romantic…._

Walking thoughtfully, he heads out of the kitchen and down the hall to his office. He keeps a fine crystal decanter there that Gregory had given him before they lived together, a beautiful piece he felt was too fine to be kept with the average liquors. Gregory had managed to thoroughly surprise him with it, as he had never previously had a partner who really paid attention to his personal taste or style, they merely acquired him what they thought he should want.

_Crystal ball… fine scotch._

He lifts the decanter, having a feeling he knows precisely which date Gregory is referencing. There is a card beneath it. “ _I wear the rings I forged in life.”_

His heart stalls. He feels as though he is floating as he slowly walks to the lounge, where the Christmas tree they’d put up together glitters in silver tinsel and red orbs. “We went out to the cinema. A night of Christmas ghost stories.”

“First date. Sort of. Didn’t know we should be counting it yet at the time.” Greg turns from the window. He’s holding a small box. “Five years to today, actually.”

“The quote isn’t rings, Gregory.” Mycroft is too shocked to process what he should be saying. Only facts are coming through. “It’s chain. Marley’s chains.”

“I know. Bit less romantic, that.”

He bends a knee.

Mycroft can barely remember it all, after- it feels like a burst of heat erupts from his heart where words were, promises made and a fair bit of kissing.

He’ll fervently deny, later, that he cried.

“The sleigh ride,” he gasps once his mind is finally working again, and they’re both having a celebratory glass of good scotch (or tea with a dash of the scotch in it, in Mycroft’s case- though he is no longer feeling very ill at all, Gregory insists that he keep caring for himself until he is sure the flu has passed). “You were going to-”

“At midnight, yeah.” Greg smiles, tucking a stray bit of Mycroft’s hair behind his ear fondly. “S’alright, love. Not risking your health just to make a big display. Just wanted it to be the same day, is all. Even if it’s mid-morning so you can still have a lie-in. S’important to me. ”

Mycroft kisses him again, blissfully happy in every possible way to be nuzzled against his lover- his _fiance’s-_ side. “It’s important to me too.”

It will have to be a winter wedding. There’s nothing else for it.

“I love you, Gregory.”

“Love you too, gorgeous.”


End file.
